


Rounded With a Sleep

by Clever_Girl



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 15:33:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3073115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clever_Girl/pseuds/Clever_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surviving the arena doesn't make you finished with the arena. It's there your whole life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rounded With a Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> We are such stuff  
> As dreams are made on; and our little life  
> Is rounded with a sleep.  
> -The Tempest

_Beetee lifts his bow and nocks an arrow, breathing out as he sights the target. He doesn’t really know how to use it -the quick tutorial during training wasn’t nearly enough- and even if he did, he wouldn’t be great at it anyway. He doesn’t have the arm strength to pull it back properly, for one; his glasses make it difficult to properly aim, for another. But, it is a physics based weapon, and Beetee knows physics. His brain can compensate for his lack of muscle or physical skill, just as it has thus far. His fingers shake and he pauses, drawing another breath as he sets up the shot again. If this succeeds as planned, he will take a human life. His first. He pushes back the thought. “Compartmentalize,” he commands himself silently. “Don’t think about it, Latier. Stay cold and stay alive. Think about it later.” The target on the other end of his shot is just that - a target. Not a human, not a child. Just something that needs to be hit. He exhales and moves his fingers, releasing the arrow. It flies wildly, just as he knew it would, his unsteady grip causes it to wobble but Beetee had planned around it. It hits the target in the head, bouncing off the hard bone of the skull, but opening the skin and releasing a torrent of blood. Head wounds bleed a lot, Beetee knows this, and with his opponent confused, in pain, losing blood, and possibly blinded by blood in his eyes, Beetee has the advantage to finish him off. Beetee touches his own face, there’s wetness pouring down his forehead, his mouth tastes bloody. It wells up out of his throat and coats his tongue. He cries for help, but he can’t make an actual sound, just breath scraping out over his teeth as blood cascades outwards instead of a scream-_

Beetee wakes up, lungs still heaving, heart still racing. He recognizes his bedroom almost immediately. He still has the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, but he prods his cheeks and gums with his tongue and he hasn’t bitten himself. It’s just the dream keeping hold of him. He forces a few deep breaths and blinks the sleep out of his eyes. He can never go back to sleep after one of these dreams, no matter how exhausted he might be.

The space in the bed beside him is empty, the sheet cold when he runs his hand over it, smoothing out the wrinkles from thrashing in his sleep. He always seems to have worse dreams when Wiress isn’t there with him, as though her small body in his arms wards off the bad thoughts, forces them away until morning. Beetee still can’t shake off the heavy dread in his heart, the guilt and fear from his Games. “Compartmentalize,” he whispers, grabbing his glasses and pulling on the pair of pajama pants shed on the bedroom floor. “Think about it later.”

He only thinks about it when he has to, in small bits and pieces that are all he can handle at any given moment. He’s surrounded by the Games constantly, between mentoring and victory tours and interviews and Capitol visits, he never has a quiet moment in a safe space where he can really think about what he did and get some peace about it. He’s not sure he deserves peace. He killed seven other children, and while he is glad he survived, knows he deserved to survive and probably has done more good for the world in these intervening years than any of the other tributes could have, he still thinks he deserves to be haunted by it.

He only has one real source of happiness anymore, and he pads downstairs to find her. 

 

The first floor is quiet and dark, no coffeemaker running, no evidence of a midnight snack. Beetee can’t help but feel panic well up inside him, even though he knows she’s probably just in the workshop, that she wouldn’t leave the house without telling him, that she can defend herself as well as scream loud enough to wake him so she couldn’t possibly have been taken. Still, he doesn’t think he could lose her and stay sane.

He calms down as soon as he sees the light shining beneath the workshop door. Wiress doesn’t look up when he enters, so he stays in the doorway, watching her as she works. She isn’t doing anything difficult, just cleaning and shining loose parts, probably busy work since she couldn’t sleep, but her fingers still touch the metal reverently, and something about the way she holds the cloth makes Beetee feel warm.

He had never been attracted to a woman like her before. There weren’t any other women like her. 

Her dark hair is tied back, but the wild frizz still sticks out in places; a halo around her temples, a strand tucked behind her ear, a single curl brushing the long line of her neck that makes Beetee ache to touch her. She slowly stops working and puts all the parts down, still staring out blankly and not even registering his presence.

He steps forward, only to be stopped by her soft voice. “Don’t.”

He would never dream of disobeying. She asks for so little but gives him so much. He stays absolutely still, waiting patiently for her to explain.

She turns slightly, still looking down, but enough towards him that he can see tears in her eyes. “I…I can’t have you too near,” she’s silent for a bit, most people would think that was the end of her sentence, but Beetee knows her and can see the slight wobble of her lower lip that indicates her fighting for her words as she makes sense of her own thoughts. “...unless…” She tilts her head, gazing up at him through her thick lashes. “Unless its very near.” Beetee can recognize this thought even without her explicit words, can see the clear invitation for what it is, and joins her.

 It’s not the first time they forget themselves with their bodies. It won’t be the last. It’s not particularly healthy, the level of need they have for each other, their codependence, but the Capitol took that away many years ago, along with everything else. Beetee feels better afterwards, calmer, more focused. The taste of his nightmare’s blood is gone from his mouth, replaced with the taste of Wiress, the taste of passion. She’s more peaceful now too, not fidgeting anymore, not struggling for words. “We should go back to bed,” she stretches her arm towards him. She hasn’t bothered putting her pants back on.

“I won’t be able to sleep, but I’ll lie down with you.” He accepts her hand and lets her lead him upstairs.

Holding Wiress as she falls asleep is his heaven, his peace. He drifts off a bit, despite his protests.

_Beetee hugs the young woman, the newest victor. She clings back tightly, laughing slightly hysterically. “I made it!” She pulls away from him so she can see his face._

_“You’re alive,” he whispers over and over. He thought he might never see that grin ever again, he was so fond of her and still thought he was bound to lose her, but not now. He doesn’t need to worry anymore. He pulls her back into his arms for a tighter hug. “You’re alive…”_

In their bed, Beetee pulls Wiress closer, bodies flush together, his face in her hair.

_“I’m safe, Beetee, we’re safe.”_


End file.
